Read Online I Heart New York by Lindsey Kelk - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lindsey Kelk
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, British, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction
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you to write in,’ Jenny explained, opening the notebook to the first page. ‘You said that you didn’t really know what your ambitions were earlier, now I want you to work some out. And make sure you include getting laid. Now upstairs, dinner, ambitions and then sleep.’
She shooed me away and turned to a hotel guest waiting patiently in front of the counter with a megawatt smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Roberts?’ I heard her purr as I slipped into the lift, my nose already in the notebook.
Name: Easy, Angela Clark.
Age: Twenty-six and six months. More of a wince with that one.
Ambition: To be a published writer.
Next to published writer, I added, ‘To be happy’.
And next to that, ‘Get laid’.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I woke up feeling I had to meet my new life head on. So what if I’d never done anything impulsive before today? I was now a born again New Yorker and a New New Yorker needed a New Handbag. I’d put together a simple outfit, short shorts, a beautifully cut white shirt and cute little lemon ballet slippers. My make-up and hair might not have been up to Razor/Gina standards but I still looked better than I had in, well, since the last time I’d actually bothered to look in a mirror.
Jenny had been insistent that I travel everywhere by subway until I knew the system as well as the London Underground. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that even after nearly seven years in London, I could still pretty much only find my way from Waterloo to TopShop Oxford Circus without looking at the map. Cautiously, I slipped down the subway steps, scoping out a Metrocard machine and feeding in my cash. So far, so London. Twenty-four dollars for a one week pass? Not so London. I knew TFL had been ripping me off…
According to my notes, I was supposed to take the 6 train to Spring Street–easy. But looking at the map, I was sure it would have been quicker to walk. Immediately I was confused, why didn’t the lines just have names? What was with the colours, the letters and the numbers? And how did I know what stopped where? Jenny’s notes expressly forbade asking anyone for directions or getting a guidebook out. Halfway around Bloomingdale’s the day before, she had grabbed my Rough Guide out of my handbag and ceremoniously dropped it in a rubbish bin.
The subway was hot in the sticky August heat, but the platforms were much bigger than the Underground. When the train arrived, it was huge inside compared to the cramped little District line. At first I couldn’t work out why the carriage looked so familiar and then I remembered, Ghost . This is my train! Louisa and I must have watched that film a thousand times as teenagers. But Louisa’s not here, I reminded myself. She’s probably playing mixed doubles with her husband, your ex and his mistress. The fact that I knew she was probably on her honeymoon in Grenada did nothing to dispel the ugly fantasy I’d created for myself. Before I could slink off the train and back into the hotel, the doors closed and we pulled off. I dropped backwards onto the hard metal bench and studiously avoided eye contact with the other travellers while sneakily trying to get a good look at them.
It would be such a New York cliché to call the subway a melting pot but it really was. Businessmen in suits clung to the straps, tourist shoppers from Fifth Avenue clutched their Saks and Tiffany’s bags nervously, while a group of Hispanic girls with truly gravity defying hair backcombed each other beside me. In between them, older travellers rode the train with their eyes closed. Before I knew it, we were at my stop. I dashed through the open doors and headed up the steps, trying not to look around with too much confusion. As I exited on to Spring Street, the super strong sun caught me off guard and I almost toppled backwards into a girl, so cool looking I felt sure that she must be famous. Or at least sleeping with someone famous.
‘Sorry,’ I gave her my best
She shooed me away and turned to a hotel guest waiting patiently in front of the counter with a megawatt smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Roberts?’ I heard her purr as I slipped into the lift, my nose already in the notebook.
Name: Easy, Angela Clark.
Age: Twenty-six and six months. More of a wince with that one.
Ambition: To be a published writer.
Next to published writer, I added, ‘To be happy’.
And next to that, ‘Get laid’.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I woke up feeling I had to meet my new life head on. So what if I’d never done anything impulsive before today? I was now a born again New Yorker and a New New Yorker needed a New Handbag. I’d put together a simple outfit, short shorts, a beautifully cut white shirt and cute little lemon ballet slippers. My make-up and hair might not have been up to Razor/Gina standards but I still looked better than I had in, well, since the last time I’d actually bothered to look in a mirror.
Jenny had been insistent that I travel everywhere by subway until I knew the system as well as the London Underground. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that even after nearly seven years in London, I could still pretty much only find my way from Waterloo to TopShop Oxford Circus without looking at the map. Cautiously, I slipped down the subway steps, scoping out a Metrocard machine and feeding in my cash. So far, so London. Twenty-four dollars for a one week pass? Not so London. I knew TFL had been ripping me off…
According to my notes, I was supposed to take the 6 train to Spring Street–easy. But looking at the map, I was sure it would have been quicker to walk. Immediately I was confused, why didn’t the lines just have names? What was with the colours, the letters and the numbers? And how did I know what stopped where? Jenny’s notes expressly forbade asking anyone for directions or getting a guidebook out. Halfway around Bloomingdale’s the day before, she had grabbed my Rough Guide out of my handbag and ceremoniously dropped it in a rubbish bin.
The subway was hot in the sticky August heat, but the platforms were much bigger than the Underground. When the train arrived, it was huge inside compared to the cramped little District line. At first I couldn’t work out why the carriage looked so familiar and then I remembered, Ghost . This is my train! Louisa and I must have watched that film a thousand times as teenagers. But Louisa’s not here, I reminded myself. She’s probably playing mixed doubles with her husband, your ex and his mistress. The fact that I knew she was probably on her honeymoon in Grenada did nothing to dispel the ugly fantasy I’d created for myself. Before I could slink off the train and back into the hotel, the doors closed and we pulled off. I dropped backwards onto the hard metal bench and studiously avoided eye contact with the other travellers while sneakily trying to get a good look at them.
It would be such a New York cliché to call the subway a melting pot but it really was. Businessmen in suits clung to the straps, tourist shoppers from Fifth Avenue clutched their Saks and Tiffany’s bags nervously, while a group of Hispanic girls with truly gravity defying hair backcombed each other beside me. In between them, older travellers rode the train with their eyes closed. Before I knew it, we were at my stop. I dashed through the open doors and headed up the steps, trying not to look around with too much confusion. As I exited on to Spring Street, the super strong sun caught me off guard and I almost toppled backwards into a girl, so cool looking I felt sure that she must be famous. Or at least sleeping with someone famous.
‘Sorry,’ I gave her my best
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